miracles.

There are lovely, amazing things to be shared in this life, my friends. But. I can't pretend that Texas and Las Vegas didn't happen. that Charlie Rose didn't break my heart. that black Friday isn't an ugly thing. That a personal family crisis hasn't turned my own life upside down.

I will never believe there isn't room for lovely things, that the sharing of them isn't still important. undeniably, it is, perhaps now more than ever. but to pretend the hard things don't exist, the things that almost break us, render us speechless, hopeless, to go on as if nothing has happened, is happening, will happen, well. I just can't do it.

So, I'm trying to stay steeped in December over here. which really just means I'm busy pinching sap off the ends of Christmas tree branches, to inhale. you know, so I can breathe it in, every chance I get. recently, I showed up for a hospital out patient visit with a few stray pine needles stuck to the side of my cheek and, I don't know. I think this means I might be doing it right.

I Am trying to find places for all the Christmas things I need to be doing right now. I am playing all the Christmas playlists, singing all the songs, baking all the things. wishing for a tiny Christmas miracle. because Christmas is something you do but also, something you feel. something you wear on your heart. It is the celebration of a birth, the birth is hope and without this hope, we are nothing.

I'm mostly at the hospital/doctors these days, comforting when I can. being comforted when I need it, that is, when I've not got my face buried deep in the branches of a Fraizer Fir.  I try to lose myself in the rituals of the day. I tell stories, listen to doctors, hold hands, and pray. and I will not forget to be thankful. but I will also remember. 

Yesterday we celebrated each other with a lunch excursion into Cleveland, to Miss Hickory's Tea Room. We were seated by a table of nicely dressed older women who watched over the place from a table in the corner. Between talking, they sipped lavender tea and devoured cranberry scones. An elderly lady with dyed black hair and polyester pants came in shortly after we did, and the hostess seated her at the next table over. They exchanged greetings and a hug, and she helped her out of her coat. Then she brought her a pot of tea, filled perilously to the rim, and a steaming bowl of chicken stew. She was so quiet and careful, deftly angling her spoon to savor the chunks of chicken and the fat little dumplings that floated on top, and watching her, we all decided to order the same. So we ate, bowls of chicken stew and tiny tea sandwiches. scones with clotted cream and homemade jam. and a heavenly double chocolate cake, and never before, in the history of Cleveland, were there three more stuffed contented people.  We were happy. Then we drove to Whole Foods. Because we needed something healthy.

we bought chocolate.

and ribbon candy.

I was thinking about my Dad earlier today and it made me happy. I let go of all that I am holding onto so tightly, all the self-imposed deadlines and expectations, all the anxiety. all of it floated right out of my body and up into an infinite grey sky. they are hovering now. somewhere over far away, I think.

because really, it's the thought.
And praying for miracles is an everyday thing.

just sayin'.

a special moment.

When I lived in San Francisco, I worked full-time for an upscale department store. I showed up most days by 8:00am sporting fancy pants and perfectly undone hair and makeup. Sometimes on my way in, I’d pop into the coffee shop next door for a cup of tea and cinnamon scone to kickstart my day. My heels click-clacked through the lobby and up the elevator to the third floor where I worked with a department full of audacious sales girls.

Almost every afternoon, a few of us girls would head to the frou frou French bakery on the corner in search of our treat du jour to overcome our 3pm slump. We’d treat ourselves to tarte tatin, macarons, impossibly tiny pots de crème, Pralines, Café liégeois, or my favorite pain à la duchesse. The shop owner knew all of us by name, but I think he liked Lily the best (probably because she occasionally spoke French to him. Our route took us past boutiques, florists and specialty shops, as we welcomed the much-needed break from our customers, the sunshine on our faces and an excuse to stretch our legs. That walk to the bakery was a time-out from the daily grind, a special moment if you will.

All these years later there are days my 3pm alarm still goes off, I look around my messy life littered with chores, and I think about how nice it would be to walk to that corner bakery for a pastry and a special moment. That little luxury was one of a hundred freedoms I had back then... midweek cocktails with friends, date nights any night, more than enough sleep, movies in theaters (!), pedicures, Ti Chi by the water, running errands on my lunch break. I shopped in real dressing rooms; I could try on jeans for an hour if I wanted to. Time was on my side, and sometimes I had some to spare. I used to attend yoga regularly, always working my way out of shavasana at a snail’s pace because why wouldn’t I? Nobody needed me urgently.

Fast forward the years to today I am needed urgently almost every hour of the day—who else is going to dispense pills, do laundry, make and keep doctor's appointments, chauffeur, make snacks, yadda yadda?

To be perfectly blunt, my life is quite un-luxurious these days.

While I've certainly lost a lot of my freedom to the demands of caretaking an elderly parent, I still try to cling tightly to a few of my little luxuries. Because on the days when I am merely holding on by a string, those tiny moments for me, those flashes of delight, can often be the difference between losing my mind and recharging my batteries.

you know what I'm talking about.

For example….

On the rare occasion I spend the day at home, I sneak to the kitchen, open the refrigerator and exhale. I make a healthy lunch, before popping one frozen cookie dough ball in the oven. I happily eat lunch on the couch, while reading a book. Just as I finish the last bite, the oven timer beeps. My whole house smells like cookies, and I savor it. a special moment.

Every Saturday night I scrub my face harder than I’ve scrubbed it all week and apply a facemask. If I’m feeling really wild, I’ll even bust out my teeth whitening strips. Sometimes I trim my bangs, clip my fingernails, pluck a few stray chin hairs. For the first time all week, I'm doing a few things that make me feel better about myself. I’ve appropriately named the process "Saturday Night Me Time" so when the hubs finds me looking like a swamp creature in the middle of the weekend, there is no confusion. He knows it's Saturday and that's my Me Time. a special moment.

Once or twice a month I go shopping. alone. Usually on a weeknight when I realize I’ve run out of shampoo, hand soap or laundry detergent or most frequently patience. I kiss the tops of my puppies heads and flee the house like an escaped convict. I sit in the parking lot and check Instagram, text three friends, breathe. And then I wander the aisles of Target. I touch the towels, examine lipstick shades, try on two pairs of shoes that I do not buy. I get the toilet paper and the laundry detergent and splurge on a fancy coffee. a special moment.

Once a week I try to go to power yoga, and it’s called power yoga because it’s stinkin' hard. For one hour I bend myself into shapes and positions that my over the hill  body often resists, and it feels so good I could cry. The room is warm and everyone is sweating; new age music is streaming through the speakers, and in that moment I am breathing with great intention. I work myself out of shavasana a little more quickly than I used to because, now, there are people at home who need me. a special moment.

These days, the emphasis is more on little and less on luxury. I steal these moments, fight for these moments, negotiate that hour of yoga and work that fancy facemask into my time line, because those minutes of subtle indulgence can and do make me a better person.

I often receive mixed messages about this. On the one hand I'm told that being a caregiver is the most sacrificial role in the world. We are affirmed and applauded in our sacrifice, our selflessness, our willingness to give all of ourselves to someone who needs us so much. At the same time, we are strongly encouraged to find “me time”, to not lose ourselves completely, to practice self-care on a regular basis.

How do you do that? How do you give selflessly and sacrificially while remaining a tiny bit selfish at the same time? Do you give and give and give until you have nothing left, and then run away to the spa for a weekend? Do you unabashedly pursue our own desires until you feel so guilty that you run back to your duties? Is this simply another area to seek “balance” in our lives? How do you maintain it?

I don’t have the answers, obviously, but here is where I’ve landed. I believe there is a time for sacrifice and a time for self-love, a time to chase your dreams and a time to put those dreams on hold. I believe in surrendering to the needs of others, and I also believe in reserving time for yourself. I believe in wearing yoga pants, and I believe in wearing red lipstick (yes, at the same time). I believe in allowing yourself to succumb to the messy nature of life, to sit in the park on a sunny day, to not wash your hair, to fully embrace the chaos of everyday. I also believe in allowing yourself to fight against that stereotype, to throw on the cute jeans and feel confident and pursue whatever dreams and goals you’re working towards.

I believe we can transition between the two from hour to hour, from day to day, from month to month, or year to year.

Life is fluid and always changing; some seasons we have lots of freedom and some seasons we have practically none. There was a time when I could leave for two whole weeks, and I did, and there are times when I can not leave for two whole hours, and I don’t. When you’re in the trenches, a five-minute facemask on a Saturay night might be the best luxury you can manage.

Right now my luxuries are much smaller, they’re found in warm cookies on the couch and facemasks. I’m not getting dressed up every day or planning ocean vacations or going to yoga 3x a week. Some of my friends are in a season with more freedom than me right now, and it’s hard not to be a tiny bit envious.

But, as the saying goes: The grass isn't greener on the other side. The grass is greener where you water it.

Maybe the best part about being in a season with little luxuries is that you learn to be content with less, to be thankful for the smallest things, like five minutes alone in a Target parking lot texting your bestie. This season won’t last forever, that's the good news, and the bad.  I know I'll be out of the trenches one day. Until then, I’ll be sitting on the porch with my mom, enjoying the sun on our faces and a steaming cup of hot chocolate and stories about days gone by. a special moment.

just sayin'. 

pumpkin cupcakes

 

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1 cup canned unsweetened pumpkin puree
1/2 cup whole milk
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
1/3 cup butter, softened

 

For frosting (optional):
1 8-ounce package cream cheese, at room temperature
1.5 cups powdered sugar
1 tablespoon high quality vanilla extract
2 – 4 tablespoons pumpkin puree. The pumpkin puree makes the frosting runnier than usual. Start with 2 tablespoons and add more only if it’s not too runny. I use 4 tablespoons.

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line 15 muffin cups with paper liners and spray with nonstick spray.

2. In a large mixing bowl, combine the dry ingredients (flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, salt, and baking soda) with a fork.

3. In another bowl, beat together the liquid ingredients (pumpkin puree, whole milk, eggs, and butter) using a hand whisk.

4. Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ingredients and mix well with a fork. Batter will be thick and a little spongy.

5. Spoon batter into muffin tin, filling each cup almost to top.

6. Bake about 20 minutes, or until a wooden toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean. Cool on a wire rack for about 20 minutes.

7. Five minutes before cupcakes are done cooling, prepare the frosting: beat the cream cheese until softened, using an electric mixer on medium. Slowly add the sugar and vanilla extract, then the pumpkin puree, and beat for a couple more minutes, until creamy.

8. Frost the cupcakes and decorate, if you wish. We like to decorate pumpkin cupcakes with candy corn.

The frosted cupcakes keep well in the refrigerator for 2-3 days. Take them out of the fridge an hour before serving them. The non-frosted pumpkin cupcakes freeze well, and are easily thawed in the microwave.

open mic monday.

I know.  I know.  This is a great time of life and there is still so much more to come (unless I've just jinxed it).  But there is definitely some stuff that reminds me I'm not a high school cheerleader wanna be any more.  Yes, these are the kind of things I think about in the murky, forgotten hours between midnight and dawn. I know. I. Know.

Stretching out to walk last week, I hiked my leg up on a fence like I was a ballerina and pulled a muscle. I wish you could have seen the looks on my puppies faces.  WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Did you just try to do a split on the fence?

I actually heard a popping sound and was kinda confused for a moment like I was thinking the big pep rally was this Friday night and why wouldn't I be stretching vigorously? I really need to practice.  my jumps, pyramids and round offs! plus has anyone seen my pom poms?

Life just looks a bit different now and certain things have made that very clear.

Like the time it takes me to roll out of bed every morning with the cracks and creaks and the moans and the groans.  Or the fact that the hubs reminds me every time I walk down the stairs to hold onto the railing and don't let go "because that's how old people die".

I'm definitely reminded of my age when certain foods disagree with me.  I feel like I'm heading toward the old lady years where every meal is comprised of tea and toast.

I definitely feel it when I spend the morning in the garden and then have to recover on the couch for the entire rest of the day.  Can someone please cook dinner and bring it to me on a tray?  

Glad I did a half marathon when I turned 40 because that's clearly not happening again.  At this point, I probably couldn't do a half mile.

I feel it when someone calls me ma'am... which by the way I hate.

I feel it when I'm around young people and they talk in front of me about really private things because they assume I can't hear them. Speaking of young people? I took a couple of real estate classes several years ago, and threw in a  jazz dance class just for fun. Naturally my classes were comprised of a bunch of 20-something year olds.  I remember being sorta nervous about attending the classes. What will they think of me? Will they laugh at me returning to college, at my age? Will they think I dress funny?

Will they this? Will they that?

Are you kidding me?   I wasn't in the class for more than ten minutes before I realized THEY DON'T CARE.  In fact, I was absolutely invisible.  An apparition which made the hair on the back of their necks stand up when I floated by. They looked at each other curiously like "did you feel something?".

It was both a huge relief and a giant blow to my ego.  Oh well.

I go back and forth. At times, it's really clear that I am in fact over 60. and forgive me but this is a big deal.

And then like the college class experience, I think I'm around their age.  I can't figure out why the young waiter has to nervously look away from the slightly older woman flirting with him.  Yes me.  I'm the OLD (ER) woman flirting with the newly traumatized kid.  Oh stop, he'll live.

I don't know where I was going with this blog post.  I think it's about oldness or cheer leading or inappropriate behavior.  I'm not sure.

Let's just call it Open Mic Monday. (yes, I know it's not Monday.)

just sayin'.

 

best gingersnaps, ever!

1 cup packed brown sugar

3/4 cup oil

1/4 cup molasses

1 egg

2 cups flour

2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp ginger

1/2 tsp cloves

1/4 tsp salt

mix sugar, oil, molasses and egg together.  beat well.  then, whisk together flour, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, cloves and salt in a separate bowl. gradually blend flour mixture into molasses mixture - by hand.  using about 1 T for each, form into 1 1/4" balls.  roll in granulated sugar place 2" apart on a greased cookie sheet. bake at 375 degrees for 10-12 minutes.  makes about 4 dozen.

forever in blue jeans.

The leaves have been turning and are just starting to fall outside. The wonky sun turns in earlier. every single day.  and just last night, I scooped up fistfuls of amber memories and flung them into the air like confetti. 

Usually around this time I'm starting to make peace with it. For the past two Octobers, I've had something quite specific to say. But the calendar flipped10 days back and I found myself with empty hands, and no big plans.

Have I lost a bit of magic?

Have I finally run out of things to say?

These are the thoughts that plague me, on nights that are spent looking under my bed, searching the dark hallways, feeling stood up for my own party. It's on those nights I'm sure that my words have been plucked and fairy-danced away. given to someone more deserving. someone who appreciates them more. someone who does proper writerly things like drink strong, black coffee in an itchy cardigan and read the classics.

Other times, my words come tumbling out like a waterfall. on a dusty creek bed.

One these nights I can be found stumbling to the chair by the window with a spiral notebook and a pen, waving my yawns away because there's not enough time for sleep and all the words.

That's the big problem with writing, and also with the meaning of life, really. time. It's the thing that trips me up. every single way.

At times I've let the world tell me what it is, and where to find it, while I'm busy searing certain images into my heart. While I study the faces, the lines of a tree, a muddled box of oil paints. I look to the higher places, track the obvious answers. Does this make me an artist then? And what about everyone else? I've learned the best solution to my personal artistic stagnation is to run toward the very things that jump and squiggle around me every minute, all the live long days. I infuse myself there, and it truly is a beautiful thing. It brings me back to joy because I choose to notice it straight out of the mundane.

But what becomes of me on the days when I've used up all my words? Do I listen to music and write letters to Neil Diamond? ummm, yeah.


Dear Mr. Diamond,

I am infatuated by you. Impressed, befuddled, and at times I can be found blubbering on the living room floor  trying to explain the significance of a song like Shilo to my puppies...oh you, you are a sly one, Mr. Diamond. I have felt this way for a very long time. We've been together since the early sixties. I just can't quit you. This is all your fault.

See, somewhere in the middle of my teen years, I discovered your Tolstoy-esque eloquence and fell in love with you your music. I've played it almost non-stop ever since. Have you ever listened to  Jungletime  blaring from a Boom Box while dancing in the shower? No? Let me tell you, it Friggin Rocks.

Thing is, Neil, your music got under my skin.  

I adore you.

Several years ago I watched you  on Jimmy Kimmel Live, chumming it up and talking about your new album of cover songs. Cover songs!!! Really!!? I must admit, I prefer your original work, but who am I pass up a new version of Desperado? This made me take a quick glace once again at your stuff on Itunes…new, old, and otherwise.

Big mistake.

Two a.m. found me on my bedroom floor, listening to your version of Midnight Train to Georgia, blowing my nose in my pajama sleeve, sobbing to the puppies about a simpler place and time. 

Now the puppies love you too.

So, instead of sleeping I am cruising, for songs I haven't listened to in years. drudging up all kinds of emotional dust bunnies. Thinking of all the times and places where you were a part of my life.

I know.

When I scan the list of your songs, it is quite obvious, you Mr. Diamond, were everywhere.

 
You were there in the back corner singing Sweet Caroline and Cracklin' Rosie the year we graduated from High School. And three years later, you were there while the whole world was singing Song Sung Blue. Holy crap I love that song. Then 43 years later you had a front row seat as we all rode in our home town parade on our hippie float. Forty three years later!

 You Don't Bring Me Flowers and Love on the Rocks set the mood to my first serious relationship. When I saw my Ex out with his new girlfriend, NOT EVEN TWO WEEKS after we broke up, you were there. She was a size zero and making a casual reference to Kierkegaard while he looked at her all adoringly. I’m over it now, but, Mr. Diamond, if you would have written a song called Up Yours Kentucky Woman, that would have been really awesome.

You were there in that bar on New Years Eve in 1980 singing, Hello Again. And now, this song is always there like a ghost memory, haunting me. always bringing back that image. reminding me of that bitter-sweet time. Little did I know then that night would play over and over in my mind almost every day for the rest of my life. I did not know, but you did.  Just thinking about If I Never Knew Your Name and Dry Your Eyes makes me sob to this day.

 
You were there the time I sat in my car crying. It was a random morning when I had to pull over to the side of the road as Remember Me came softly over the car stereo. I had my elbows up on the steering wheel with my head in my hands. When the song ended, I grabbed the cassette tape out of the player and turned it back to FM radio like nothing ever happened. I still have that cassette tape. 

 

You were there when I had too much to drink at a wedding reception and danced my butt off to Thank the Lord for the Night Time and Red, Red Wine…when one thing lead to another and, well, that might be a story for another day. But as I listened to you singing about your blue, blue heart I wondered how my life had come to this.   

When did life take that turn? Well, it’s hard to pin point that exact moment in time, but I’m guessing you were there too.

I could fill a book with memories of your songs and their attachments to the people and places I've known, that you have never heard of…but I digress. I have other things to do and so do you. I cannot stumble down memory lane with you and your Two-Bit Manchild music any longer this evening, Mr. Diamond.

However, before I go, I would like to thank you. Since it is now abundantly clear you have written the soundtrack to my life, past, present, and future. Also, if I may make one small request, I for one would like to hear more harmonica. You hardly ever incorporate it into your music and it is one of my favorite instruments. Don’t get me wrong, you know how to write a song just fine without my two cents, but, if I’m going to be hearing you at nearly every pivotal moment in my life, I feel that I am entitled to some input. 

yours forever in blue jeans,
Floating Cloudberries

  just sayin'.

  

Marcella Hazan’s Spaghetti Frittata   serves 4
 
1/2 pound spaghetti, I like to use thin spaghetti
Kosher salt
3 tablespoons butter
1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
3 tablespoons chopped fresh Italian parsley
3 large eggs, beaten to blend and placed in a bowl large enough to hold the cooked spaghetti
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
Added for color and flavor if desired:
½ cup finely chopped, sautéed red, orange, and yellow sweet bell peppers
 
Drop the spaghetti into 3 to 4 quarts of boiling, salted water and cook until firm to the bite. It should be a bit more al dente than you usually cook it because it will undergo further cooking. Drain and toss immediately into a large bowl.  Add 2 tablespoons of butter, grated cheese, and chopped parsley, sautéed peppers if using, and toss well. Set the mixture aside to briefly cool to avoid cooking the eggs in the next step. In the meantime, preheat the broiler.
When the spaghetti mixture has cooled for a few minutes, add it to the bowl of beaten eggs and mix thoroughly, distributing the eggs evenly throughout the pasta.
Heat 1 tablespoon of butter over medium heat in a nonstick skillet with a broiler proof handle. Before the butter starts to color, add the spaghetti/egg frittata mixture to the skillet. Cook the frittata on top of the stove for 3 to 4 minutes without disturbing the pan. Then tilt the pan slightly, bringing its edge closer to the flame of the burner. Keep the pan in this position for about 1 minute, then rotate it at a shade less than a full quarter turn, always keeping it tilted so that its edge is close to the flame. Repeat until you have come around full circle. Take a look at the underside of the frittata, lifting the edge gently with a spatula, to make sure it has formed a lightly golden crust all around. If it has not, cook a little longer where needed.
Run the pan under the broiler until the top has formed a lightly colored crust. Remove and loosen with a spatula. Slide onto a cutting board and cut into serving wedges as you would a pie. Alternately, cut into pieces or squares and serve as an appetizer. Good either warm or at room temperature.

something to smile about.

A few days back I watched the rain pound the front yard into puddles and I talked myself through the circles of things I need to do and have to do and want to do.

And I wondered how all these things, meld themselves into something like a meaningful, purposeful life.

They do, of course, but in the thick of it I find myself on the porch, after dark, watching the water in the yard rise like a wonky pond and I ask myself the hard questions. I don’t like the hard questions any more than I like the pond in my front yard, but the hard questions keep me looking ahead and that’s a good thing.

And on the following Monday when I awoke to clear skies and a muddy yard, after the previous week of a birthday party,  three doctors appointments, a nasty head cold, a broken washing machine and little to no sleep, I  committed myself to getting back on track.

I don't know what else to tell you, other than that on this rainy Fall morning, I can feel Summer putting on her breaks and it's hitting me hard. It started happening a few weeks ago, but I was in denial for the first few days, then I was frantic for one, excited for about an hour and a half, and now, this morning, I cried a little.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. I can't believe I made it this long. There's a good possibility that I'll be in full on sobbing soon, so if you have any why I love Fall stories, now would be the time to share them. every year I rally my best efforts in an attempt to enjoy Fall. I'm a firm believer in growth and color and beginning again, but ninety five percent of this season ends up drippy and cold, and it plays hard to get in the worst way. ah, Fall. I five percent love you.

 It almost doesn't feel like Summer fully happened, but I'm hoping to make these last days go a long way toward recalibrating my soul for whatever happens next.

Because there's just never enough summer.


Farewell dreamy Summer, you were very good to me this year even though I don't have the tan lines to prove it. Your flowers were more beautiful than ever, and you taught me a few new things about growing tomatoes.  You also taught me that hydrangeas are the belles of the ball and that it's fun to grow peppers even if the deer eat most of them. You united me with my inner farmer yet once again, and I may never be the same.
I know I talk excessively about it, but it can't be helped. Something happens to me when the sun shines and the air is warm. It's an almost  tangible thing. It's a feeling I can't conjure up when it's frosty, so I like to carry it around for a while.

So, in a perfect world, I would rummage around the road-side 10/$1 mini pumpkin stand in flip flops and my old t-shirt, instead this morning I'm wearing skinny cords and a chunky knit. I honored last Thursday with Capri, a day trip to the country, road side produce stands, and a hot chocolate on the deck after dark. I'm loving right now that dreamy kind of air that makes for a brisk walk in the morning, then turns deliciously warm and blissful before noon.

I love it when my arms are bare and I'm cutting perennials back and it just smells like a new start. It smells like a familiar beginning, like something is blooming even as it fades.

Yes, I know, my feelings for fall are situational. I've accepted it.

Yesterday afternoon I practically ran up to my "office", punching my time card hours before my shift was officially over, my patience allotment at the breaking point. Someone needed me every moment, my time, my energy, my constant attention all week long. By late afternoon, I was tired and frustrated that all those inspired thoughts I had would remain Quiescent, no time or energy to release them, or even more frustrating, just too weary to act on them. I had to snap myself out of it, and so the changing of the guards commenced. I did not apologize for the state of the kitchen or the unfolded laundry. There was mail to sort and floors to sweep. Both of the puppies were whining to go out.

But, for a few hours, I breathed and thought and did yoga and wrote, nurturing my own needs instead of juggling demands, and it felt good. I ate by myself that night, quietly writing between bites and watching the sun set from my bedroom window. I took the puppies for a walk and used it as an excuse to wander, caught up in the magic of the blue hour.   The silence was mesmerizing and the evening itself, entirely captivating and beautiful, so I did what I always do, I count my blessings...

By the time I strolled back in the driveway, it was well past dark. And though I opened the door and walked right back into the same place I had left earlier, it felt different, my weariness softened by the perspective a clear mind gives. This is my home. This is my life and I soaked it all in like super hero fuel. Sometimes I think I rely too much on the "beautiful" moments of life to make the hard ones "worth it." And even though the beautiful far outweighs the hard (listen, I put on my rose colored glasses every day), what if it didn't? If puppies didn't run to the door every single time and the people you love didn't love you back or reach up to hold your hand, if a mother never smiled and told stories about your childhood just like how you imagine it was when you dream of it, if sons never asked you to let them help or take you to dinner when you're tired, if research and routines and therapists never delivered the breakthroughs you believed in, if no one ever said "I'm sorry," if tough love never brought them back home, if you didn't believe they really were in "a better place", if you never stopped feeling this tired or unequipped or unloved, unworthy or so completely removed from how you thought it would look, if it never got any better than this...it's still so worth it. Right now.

Loving, even when it's hard, is the payoff in life. It is the shelling out of beautiful moments or loving someone back or being happy at this very moment. The flip side to the hard parts of life aren't shinier or easier,  they are just clearer. Like coming home to the same needs and messes and stressses that you left a bit earlier but seeing them for what they are, something you get to be a part of, something precious and beautiful. So while I at times pick moments that might look shiny to share, know that they aren't what makes life good or beautiful or worth it. They just gave me something to smile about.

just sayin'.

Corn, Cheddar and Scallion Strata (this stuff is amazing)

1 tablespoon butter
3 cups fresh corn (cut from 3 small-to-average cobs)
1 1/2 cup thinly sliced scallions (both white and green parts)
8 cups whole wheat, country or French bread in 1-inch cubes
2 cups (6 ounces) coarsely grated sharp cheddar
1 cup (2 ounces) finely grated parmesan
9 large eggs
2 tablespoons mayonnaise (I also like 2 TBL dijon mustard here)
2 3/4 cups milk
1 teaspoon table salt or 2 teaspoons of a coarse sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Generously butter a 3-quart baking dish (a 9×13-inch pan works well here). Toss corn and scallions together in a medium bowl. Combine cheeses in another bowl. In a large bowl, gently beat eggs and mayo (dijon) together, then whisk in milk, salt and 1/2 teaspoon of freshly ground black pepper. Spread one-third of bread cubes in prepared baking dish, it will not fully cover bottom of dish; this is fine. Add one-third of corn, then cheese mixture. Repeat layering twice with remaining bread, corn and cheese. Pour egg mixture evenly over strata. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 8 hours or up to 1 day.

When ready to bake, heat oven to 350 degrees F. Bake strata, uncovered, until puffed, golden brown and cooked through, about 45 to 55 minutes. Let stand 5 minutes before serving.

Do ahead: Strata keeps baked in the fridge for 4 days or longer in the freezer, wrapped well. It reheats wonderfully, either from the fridge or freezer and holds up well in picnic baskets.

in my life.

Do you have a clear memory of what you were like when you were little? I find myself wishing that I could remember more. I'm sure it's all part of my almost-midlife crisis. Other elements of said crisis are: finding it to be a real chore when I have to make myself "presentable", coming within an inch of chopping my hair off every-other-month, an increasing fondness for chips and salsa, an intolerance for uncomfortable clothes, becoming even more of a hermit, etc.. etc... It's a real doozey of a crisis, as you can see.

I grew up in a house that was just under 1100 square feet.  A two story model with three bedrooms and one bath for our family of four (later to become five) in a perfectly middle class neighborhood.  If we were poor we didn't know it.  We lived on a dead end street and ran amuck on that wooded piece of guarded security... say it with me, until the street lights came on.

We didn't have a lot of things but apparently we didn't need a lot of things.

We didn't always have a clothes dryer. We just hung our clothes outside on the line as if we lived in Amish country.  Sorry Amish country, nothing personnel.

We didn't have a credit card so there was no racking up a lifestyle above our pay grade.  If we didn't have the money, we didn't get it. We didn't get a lot of things. AND I can count the number of times we went out to dinner... on one hand, with two fingers.

We did a lot of things for ourselves.

My father tended the yard every Saturday morning ~ edging, trimming and watering.  He finished the attic for a bedroom, built a shower in the basement, poured concrete for our driveway. He also did the maintenance work on our vehicles... himself. Another one of those lost arts gone by the way of updated technology. you never see anyone under the hood of their car anymore unless you are in the parking lot of Walmart. See, it just comes out!

 My mom did all the cooking and cleaning and child rearing. You know, all the woman's work.

You made a lot of things yourself.

My mom sewed a decent amount of my clothes, and I loved them. She always let me pick out the material. In fact, I could "design" what I wanted. She really did make great things. Things I loved.  Skirts, sun dresses, and pajamas. I remember one sun dress in particular, blue print with white rick rack and lace. It was amazing and would have stood the test of time.  I know this because years later I had a dress in the same style (but without the rick rack). The sewing gene just didn't take but I so wished it had. My mom could Scarlet O'Hara the crap out of a pair of drapes.  Come to think of it she made the drapes, too! She kills me. The only thing sewing related you will find in my home is a miniature needle and thread emergency kit that I got from a stay at the Fairmont once.

It was a simpler time and if you're reading this, chances are you grew up in this hand me down prism of home sewn clothes, pot roast on Sunday dinners and hours playing in the sprinklers.

Every so often I see something or read something that makes me nostalgic for a much more scaled back and pared down lifestyle.  For a simpler time. I've always been mindful of my sentimental heart, but I'm learning to nurture that hyper awareness for how my life has changed and clicked into a good place. I want it to serve as an appreciation, a motivation tool rather than a rut that makes me yearn for yesterday or focus too much on how quickly time is passing. Because I'm pretty sure that focusing too much on how quickly time is passing and mourning that it's gone only makes it worse. Besides, right now is pretty awesome. Forward, moving on. It can be a real kick in the pants.  

 Still, at times I catch myself trying to recall what my days were like when I was little floating cloudberries. I know that I was generally happy and quite care-free. I know I was loved, daily. Every minute, in fact. I know I had everything I needed and most things I wanted. I know I was taught not to ask for things,  to be content with what I had. I know all of these things, but I'm grasping to capture a few vivid pictures of the mundane moments of my life. They are there, I know they are. I just need to dig a little.

I remember that as a kid I was wild and friendly and a bit spazzy. I talked too much and faked stomachaches when it was time to try new foods. I am fairly certain the correlation between these and my mom's memories is something like zero, give or take.  I'm just assuming here, of course, but I think it's safe to say grown-ups remember The Other Stuff.  The Big Stuff.  The Headlines.  Like the time I got the German measles and almost didn't make it. I've heard the stories, but don't remember a thing.  Or each year's Big Birthday Party (why can't I recall these?).  Or the up-late, night-before assembly sessions.  I'm totally projecting here, but I don't think I'm far off, if my own past years' parenting is any indication.

However.

The loveliest thing about memory, in my experience, is that it's deeply impressionable, open to influence.  And it doesn't require much nudging, in any case, to call to mind all the twinkling bits.


I'll remember, for sure, how we lived on a dead end street, most of the homes filled to the brim with kids all about the same ages. And how, after supper we all ran around playing hide and seek and catching fireflies. It really was all it's cracked up to be, deceptively simple, and fun.  And the universal truth, confirmed once again, that sprinklers in the summer are ridiculously entertaining.  The grown-ups, they seemed to like them, too. I'll not soon forget how I woke up to the Christmas of my dreams one snowy morning.  It is likely that Santa never made it through my list, but somehow he divined my little girl's heart, and crossed off all those many lines with one spot-on show-stopper. My first Barbie doll.

I'll long hold onto this big lump of gratitude over family dinners, every single day. I think back fondly on the way summer vacations re-appeared, every year. and I consider those many miles driving in the car with my family one of the best gifts I was ever given. I remember winters so long we didn't see the grass until April, when we would finally see the squirrels bouncing about like it was the Second Coming, hoovering acorns, dawn to dusk.  The weather was cold, but crisp, bright and blue, sixty two dee-grees and we would be hauling out the shorts and tank tops.  It's not that this was surprising, exactly, but three weeks earlier, it was three below.  You'd better believe we walked to the park.
 

While driving around this past summer, I decided to stop by the "the old house"  I hadn't been there in a while, and being summer, it would have been in full bloom. As I drove up, though, my heart dropped to the floor. It was so small. so run down. I sat in the car and stared with tears in my eyes. The flowers. The trees. The little white picket fence. gone. It was like a piece of my childhood had gone with it. A piece of myself. I don't really know what will come of that place, or who lives there now. I can tell you that it broke my heart into a million pieces.

I have my memories, though. Of the perfect little house with the white picket fence. dancing flowers, and laughter, and friends, and stories about magical sea creatures, and the messy-haired, big-eyed little girl who was fascinated by everything around her. And I have photographs, and this little space, to represent all that it meant to me. And for this sentimental woman, thank goodness for that. My today's are spent soaking up words, and sunshine, and love for my family. I'm hoping for unexpected thrills and quiet, mixed with a strong swig of rowdy. I plan to notice beauty for the grace that it is and wake up early every day.

just sayin'.

Concord Grape-Thyme Bars

	makes 12 large squares

1 pound concord grapes, stemmed
1 tablespoon fresh juice from about 1 lemon
2 cups (about 14 ounces) sugar
2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme
3 cups (about 15 ounces) all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 large egg
16 tablespoons (8 ounces) unsalted butter, chilled and cut into 1/4-inch pieces

Squeeze grapes between your fingers to separate the skins from the pulp. Place skins in bowl of food processor and pulse until roughly chopped, about 5 pulses. Place pulp in medium saucepan. Bring to boil over medium-high heat, then reduce heat to medium-low and simmer until the grapes lose their shape, about 10 minutes. Pour pulp through a fine mesh sieve into a large bowl. Use a paddle or large spoon to push pulp through sieve. Discard seeds.

Combine grape skins, pulp, lemon juice, and 1 cup sugar in now empty saucepan. Bring to boil over medium-high heat, then reduce heat to medium low and simmer for 30 minutes. Add thyme and continue simmering, stirring frequently, until mixture is reduced and has thickened to a jam-like consistency, about 15 minutes more. Remove saucepan from heat and transfer to a bowl to cool.

Adjust oven rack to middle position and preheat oven to 375°F. Butter a 13- by 9-inch baking dish

In bowl of food processor, combine flour, baking powder, remaining 1 cup sugar, and salt; pulse to combine, about 5 pulses. Add egg and butter and pulse until mixture is cohesive but still crumbly, 8 to 12 pulses.

Press 2/3 of dough into bottom of prepared baking dish. Spread grape jam evenly over dough. Sprinkle remaining dough over jam, leaving pockets of jam visible. Bake until golden and set, about 45 minutes. Transfer to cooling rack and cool completely, about 1 hour. Cut into 12 squares and serve.